


All Hail the Great King

by Fwizz101



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, Oikawa Tooru is a Mess, Oikawa Tooru-centric, Photographer!Akaashi, Post-Canon, director!ennoshita, engineer!iwaizumi, minor original characters, scientist!oikawa, this started as a mini character study and then spun rapidly out of control
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-03
Updated: 2019-08-22
Packaged: 2020-06-03 04:20:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19456231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fwizz101/pseuds/Fwizz101
Summary: In which Oikawa Tooru builds a castle, has it destroyed, and tries to rebuild.It's weird for someone who studied astrophysics, burned more than a few bridges, and moved to a different continent to find it so difficult to let some things go. Since when has Tooru been anywhere close to ordinary, though?





	1. From Blue Castles to Adulthood Blues

**Author's Note:**

> I meant to just ponder Oikawa's life and how kind of sad it is, but going further sounded fun, and... well, here we are.

Tooru spends all of middle and high school building his life. He works himself to the bone until his serves are impeccable; ornaments his day with girls that flitter in and out like moths; destroys his sight with replayed game tapes; fits everything into little scheduled blocks so he has time to study and eat and sleep sometimes in between school, practice, his best friend, games, responsibilities-- and one day, he sits atop a throne in a beautiful blue castle.

He is toppled in his third year of high school. That's not it-- his throne is a shoddy one that sits above only the barest of domains. And yet, when a challenging duo appears, it falls. _He falls._

No, he thinks bitterly over a textbook of material he already knows, it's impossible to fall when you're already sitting on the ground.

So he throws himself into another painful round of diligence. The greatest universities accept only perfection. Haven't they heard? Everything about Oikawa Tooru, from the ruffled crown of his head to the squeaky-clean soles of his shoes, is perfect. He holds himself higher than anyone can fathom-- because if he cups his hands above his head, his perfection won't spill out where people can see.

Only one person bears witness to his ugly crying face, gloriously off-key singing, and childish refusal to go to bed early. To Iwaizumi Hajime, Tooru is human. To Iwa-chan, life isn't all about always being two points ahead. But if he wants to say anything new about Tooru's life, he doesn't. They graduate at the same rate as they did in middle school.

Iwaizumi follows Tooru to university, kind of. He’s close enough to share an apartment, in which Tooru gathers together the ruins of his former aspirations and starts anew; and Iwaizumi puts up with sci-fi movie night every Friday. They sit on the floor together. Tooru narrows his focus on school-- no more decorative companions or wasted hours of practice. He barely misses them.

One day, Iwaizumi brings home his first girlfriend. Tooru puts on a delightful, sugar-sweet smile as he teases them for being too cheesy. He offers to make them dinner. They settle for tea. And while they enjoy each other's company on the couch, he locks himself in his room and pretends to be on Mars for a project he was assigned the day before. He lets two tears spill onto the red dust and resolves not to think about them any more than that. He falters a few times.

Tooru graduates in the top third of his class. Single, freshly resolute, and more hollow than he has ever felt, he moves out to live on his own. His excuse is that his new place is closer to work. The location saves him twenty minutes of walking. The building also has a nicer gym.

Somehow, in between star charts and luminosity graphs, Tooru loses sight of Iwaizumi Hajime. By the time he earns his doctorate, Hajime is an aching memory that he has long since stopped hoping for. It still hurts, but there are solar systems to document and exoplanets to search for. He still has a castle to revive.

He knows English now, fluently, between needing it to communicate to transfers and reading excerpts from American journals-- gained by contacting the authors of materials that he's interested in, of course. Nevertheless, he needs to re-read an email invitation four times before he understands. The skillful Dr. Oikawa is wanted at a lab in California. Someone of decent renown noticed his paper. He accepts, if only because he has nothing better to look forward to-- the universe is captivating enough, but variety is the spice of life.

For someone who used to dream of being the setter on the Japanese volleyball team, Tooru has travelled rather little. The flight is his first trip out of the country. He bears it, of course, and the ensuing jetlag that pulses at his temples for a day. It disappears after that; he knows how to acclimate to change. He mastered the skill forever ago.

California is certainly a change. The Americans make references to pop culture that he knows nothing about, and more than one visiting child gawks at him simply for being Japanese. (And no, he's never watched _Naruto_ , though he's sure that it must be interesting.) The work is engaging, anyway, and he buries himself in it with joy.

One of the scientists is cute, though her smile reminds him of someone who causes his chest to squeeze in on itself. His good looks are still about him, so she lingers around the lab to join him on late nights. Their friendliness goes nowhere. He appreciates having another contact anyway.

During a break between projects, Tooru is given an entire week to himself. He needs to relax, comments his coworker. She’s none the worse for her extra dedication, so he chuckles. He goes to the gym more often than most people. What’s the matter with his schedule?

Regardless, the summer sun clears away the cobwebs in Tooru’s disconsolate throne room. A few girls in their mid-twenties approach him, fooled by his youthfulness; he parries their yet-unpolished flirting with a smile that hasn’t lost its charm. He goes to his favorite restaurant and orders in flawless Japanese, to the awe of a teenage boy wearing a _Naruto_ shirt. (Hm. Americans really are into comics.) Astronomy book in hand, he sets up an umbrella on the beach and sits.

As usual, the beach is covered in screaming children and people tanning, but Tooru’s eyes are drawn to the volleyball nets when he stumbles over kanji he doesn’t recognize. It feels nostalgic in a bittersweet way. He can’t help but smile at the familiar movements-- halting with lack of practice, but smoothed by years of muscle memory. He himself tosses to the wall after a long day of work every so often.

One of the players stops mid-spike. Tooru can hear him if he strains. _Sore wa Oikawa desu ka?_

 _Oikawa-san_ , corrects his disgruntled setter. (Pure luck and a willing breeze allow Tooru to hear that. He goes back to his reading.)

Then Kuroo Tetsurou tears over and there goes Tooru’s umbrella. “Oikawa! Hey!”

They go through the proper rites of formality once Tooru’s book is put away and the umbrella is returned to its rightful place. Apparently, everyone is on vacation around this time. Apparently, everyone has gone on to have a successful career in this-and-that. A twinge of guilt surfaces in Tooru’s chest, pricking him with a reopened wound. He should have kept in touch with everyone.

But Oikawa Tooru does not show weakness, and he certainly doesn’t regret-- not when he has so much to regret in the first place.

Then Kuroo waves at the beach volleyball court, and Tooru’s heart stops when he spots the person coming over.

What is he supposed to do as they exchange stiff greetings, scanning each other for no reason? There’s no point in smiling; Haji-- Iwaizumi knows what his fake expressions look like. Tooru can only hope that his face is neutral, if not a tad mysterious. It hurts to remember how much he wants to keep up their game of dancing around the truth. It hurts to think that the foundation of his once-satisfactory castle has long since crumbled away.

Tooru is 35, but he does not have a ring on his finger. Iwaizumi doesn’t, either. Maybe it’s because they’re at the beach, and sand gets in the way of accessories. Maybe it’s because hitting balls while wearing rings generally doesn’t work out. Maybe it’s because it would kill Tooru, more than his long hours probably already do, if the situation was otherwise.

His chest aches with an embarrassing amount of fervor for someone who stopped nursing his feelings more than a decade ago. He’s pretty sure he doesn’t have heartburn.

He finds himself chatting on and on about his job to a bemused Kuroo and silent Iwaizumi. They escort him to the court, where too many old friends grin at him like nothing has changed. His umbrella stands forlornly in place; he half wishes he was hiding under it. It’s been too long since he was Perfect Oikawa Tooru, captain of the Seijoh boy’s volleyball team, patron saint of a fanclub, best friend of… the thought becomes painful. Remember, he’s not a kid in Japan anymore. Things are different in America.

Somehow, the feeling creeps up that Tooru doesn’t belong here-- or there, or anywhere. After all, his castle is still a wreck, despite his best efforts to rebuild it.

And seeing Iwaizumi shirtless does funny things to his very adult stomach. His mouth is dry, but his water bottle is with his stuff. He doesn’t stumble over his words, of course, but his mind somersaults as he repeats introductions and explains what he’s doing in California. Some of his old teammates and rivals feign interest. Others, having forgiven him, don’t care to hear his excuses and insinuated apologies.

A new game starts up, which gives Tooru the opportunity to shove his problems into the corner and try to crush Kuroo once more. He’s good at putting off dealing with things that don’t need his immediate attention. That’s why his coworker is usually the one who processes the raw data he pares down.

Maybe she wouldn’t be single if he didn’t insist on being so narrow-minded. She’s pretty and kind, and she’s got that nice smile, after all. He doubts she goes out that often after all the work for the day is done. It must be exhausting to be around him. Who knows how everyone managed to do it when he was a kid.

Iwaizumi calls for a toss. All of a sudden, Tooru is 18 and practicing for the Spring Inter-High. The ball leaves his hands. As always, it flies to the perfect spot.

Kuroo is too slow to stop the ball from hitting the sand, but Tooru doesn’t see his scowl. He’s blinking in the sun, looking beyond the sea and directly next to himself at the same time.

The ache in his chest doesn’t go away, because Iwaizumi smiles at him with ill-concealed fondness.

What Tooru wouldn’t give to be able to voice his feelings right now.

Instead, he settles for a grin and toss of his head. He makes a smug comment, causing someone or other to snort. Well, not everyone can shoot for perfection like him. Not everyone can cut off ties in an attempt to reinvent himself. Not everyone can see the ashes of his castle and aim to trump that “genius” anyway.

The conversation meanders to the topic of relationships. It always does. He waits for the inevitable remark that will cause him to collapse like a red giant. It never comes.

Everyone exchanges numbers with promises of meeting again for coffee or something before next week, when most people will be leaving. Ennoshita has a production gig in Los Angeles; he’ll be here for the next two months or so. Tooru, obviously, isn’t going anywhere. His next project starts in five days. As hard as he’s been trying to stay in vacation mode, his mind drifts to galaxies again.

Iwaizumi is moving to America for work. A forbidden sprig of hope shoots up in Tooru’s heart.

Before the feeling can take root, a cluster of data points appears, and his world is just blips on a graph for the next three weeks. He doesn’t need a castle anymore, really, if the entire universe is his sandbox. It’s just nice to have something of his own. (His paper is being co-authored by his coworker. Even Tooru can’t process everything by himself.) Sure, they have programs for this, but throwing things into a computer doesn’t yield instant results.

Akaashi Keiji texts him when the workload eases back. There are only two or three degrees of separation between high-level Japanese volleyball players around their ages. Akaashi wants a model, which Tooru certainly is not-- but could be, he gives himself, under the supervision of the right people-- to serve as an extra in Ennoshita’s production. The offer is a part-time job with unobtrusive hours.

And why exactly would Tooru accept? He’s a scientist; he makes enough money. Sure, he has the time _now_ , but it’s a temporary arrangement.

He can imagine how self-satisfied Akaashi’s expression is when he responds: because Iwaizumi has already acquiesced to a similar part. Does everyone know how weak Tooru is when it comes to him? Is being calculating part of the prerequisites for being a setter? Networking does involve some string-pulling, though, and he has to give credit where credit is due.

Tooru concedes to his own foolishness when he agrees to appear at the requested time. Akaashi sends him an ironic smiley emoticon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On the Japanese:  
> Don't assume that it's right. My knowledge is, like, level 0.0001 when it comes down to it.
> 
> It took me a sad number of Google searches to find the right characters to write into Google Translate. I don't know "so," and I had to double check "de" and "ko." That's alright, I guess, for the purpose of what I was trying to convey. (And, I mean, I didn't really have to Google Translate it, but I felt like it. This whole thing was an "I felt like it" piece.)
> 
> "Kore wa hato desu ka?" serves a similar function to "sore wa Oikawa desu ka?" in my brain. Well, anyway.
> 
> Kore wa hato desu ka? = Is this a pigeon? (you're welcome)  
> Sore wa Oikawa desu ka? = Is that Oikawa?
> 
> Japanese has nice patterns and stuff.
> 
> But anyway, I'm learning Spanish in school, so this is all scattered pieces of my weeb-iness and all. Don't take my word for anything.


	2. From Past to Future

The filming location is hot.

Iwaizumi is also, admittedly, hot.

Tooru is, too-- the fan is on its highest setting, but the air is as stagnant as ever. He reminds himself that Los Angeles is a city of stars and dreams, not killer heat waves. It doesn’t help. He doesn’t get paid enough for this. Then again, money isn’t the reason he’s here. He wouldn’t drive seven hours for money. He curses Akaashi under his breath.

Dutiful Director Ennoshita gives them instructions. Tooru pays attention for all of ninety seconds before the sun squelches his last brain functions. Can’t they do the briefing indoors? He can walk into a library and act natural without being told twice. It’s practically his job to read. He did it all the time in university.

Ennoshita gives him a pointed look at the end of his spiel, as if expecting him to pick apart the directions. Seriously? They’re not kids trading insults through a volleyball net. He knows what he needs to do: walk in before the main character, flirt with the librarian, and pick through the fashion section like he actually cares. The lead will toss a stray remark to her friend about him, and the camera will be shuttled off in the other direction. It’s easy.

The librarian is Iwaizumi wearing cosmetic glasses that show off his impeccable jawline. Tooru inhales a sigh with so much force that the best girl grip (a skittish blonde, Yachi something?) flinches. He did not wake up for this.

“If you want, I can do it,” Akaashi offers without bothering to sound less dry. “I’ll reassign you.”

A feeling from Tooru's semi-lost childhood pokes at his lips, turning them up into a smile. He doesn't doubt that Akaashi can fill in, but he can bring something else to the role. Besides, if Ennoshita wanted his director of photography in the film, he wouldn't have agreed to have Tooru over. Yep, nothing to worry about.

Akaashi looks between Tooru and the crew fussing over Iwaizumi's hair. He smirks. Tooru is thoroughly offended and proclaims it.

The first take is a disaster. At least the lead is the one who flubs her line. She must be distracted by the way Tooru stands ramrod straight in front of the desk and forces a greeting out. Frilly words stick in his throat, but he refuses to stoop to a pickup line. Iwaizumi glares a hole into his head.

“Hey, Iwa-chan, you're gonna get wrinkles from frowning so much,” Tooru comments before he can stop himself. “Smile for the camera.’

He waits for the objection-- rejection-- to slap him across the face, but Iwaizumi just snorts.

The next take is perfect on Tooru's side. He strolls through the door and barely finishes holding it for the lead before he reaches the librarian's desk. It's harder to choose what to bring up than to compliment Iwaizumi's glasses. They are nice glasses; they don’t hide his face at all. Tooru can drink in every millisecond of the lingering look he gets. He savors it.

One of the actresses approaches him at the end of the day to ask about his research. Acting is a side pursuit to her. She really wants to explore the universe like he does. Tooru graces her with a smattering of badinage, but refuses her request-- it's not his place to invite students to the lab. No matter how wrapped up in the past he is, life carries on. He needs to remember that.

It'd be a lot easier if Iwaizumi hadn't invited him to lunch, though. And it'd be vastly easier if he hadn't bought him milk bread afterwards, years of history aside. It tastes like getting scraped knees from chasing after fireflies-- the essence of their childhood. Or, anyway, it's just bread.

“So, what brings you here?” inquires Tooru in what he hopes is an airy, nonchalant lilt. In the stifling atmosphere of the California summer, summoning enough cheerfulness to do so is no small feat. But who would he be without spending so much effort on appearances?

“The same thing as you-- work.”

“But what about the underclassmen who look up to you?”

He scoffs. “What about them? They didn’t stop you.”

“You’re mad at me.” The statement sounds sulky in spite of Tooru’s careful intonation.

“Of course I am. You left without saying goodbye and never called.”

“Iwa-chan, are you my mom?”

Tooru watches for a slap to come, but Iwaizumi's face crumples and he bursts into laughter. Ennoshita should have filmed him instead of whatever the movie was about. He has wrinkles, as predicted, but they're crow's feet at the corners of his eyes and not lines on his forehead. His mouth is the same shape as it's always been. Like a human qubit, Tooru feels both homesick and at home.

“Do you need me to tell you to take care of yourself?” Iwaizumi chides as if reprimanding a child.

“I call my actual mom every week. And my doctor's appointments are always good.”

“So you're okay with leaving everything behind?”

That's a little harsh. Tooru still has some things, like his family and his pride. He has late nights spent poring obsessively over data. He has the itch to cling to Iwaizumi like when they were kids, whining into his shoulder about how tired he is. To run his fingers through Iwaizumi's hair, trailing down the side of his face and brushing a thumb across his jaw-- but that's enough of that.

And, now, he has a phone stuck in his face.

“Type in your new phone number.” A non-negotiable task with commanded reciprocation.

Naturally, Tooru does not hesitate to give an attractive guy his number. If he has any say in the matter, they'll go back to their routine of exchanging bizarre messages at stranger times. In the haze of the early morning, awkwardness isn't a concept. He can send anything without having it bite him later… hopefully.

Ennoshita calls him for another shoot the next month. It may be a waste of a day to wander in the background, but Tooru doesn't have anything more interesting to do during the weekends anyway. His computer chips away at space regardless of whether or not he's there to watch it run. The legacy of his castle hoists its azure flags above the lab without his guidance. Also, his coworker urges him to have a life outside of work. She has a girlfriend now. Lucky her.

Tooru buys Iwaizumi lunch after their duties are fulfilled. He wants to chat and take more time to memorize every detail of Iwaizumi’s face. They can still be best friends, right? A decade isn’t a long time. They’ve known each other for longer than that, through next-door windows and the mask of pretty lies. In the end, they’re the same as they’ve always been. Tooru still lets his facade crack. Iwaizumi still pretends that he doesn’t notice.

Adults spend a ridiculous amount of time talking about jobs. They’re no exception, seeing as how Tooru refuses to dwell too much on the distant past. Iwaizumi-- despite his less-than-mediocre drawing skills-- works to refine mechanisms to their full potential. Tooru, who is perfect for all intents and purposes, seeks out imperfections in light readings. Their work environments are decent; the money is enough to live comfortably.

A feeling burns in Tooru’s chest. Too bad it’s not something a doctor can help. Too bad he can’t launch himself into orbit and pretend to be a star.

“I’m thinking about starting to date again,” he hears himself say.

Is he? The relationships he had in high school weren't his picture of properly dating. He was always drawn back to Iwaizumi and the necessity of devoting himself to volleyball, so he never established anything of emotional worth. In theory, he knows what he wants-- Iwaizumi in his pants, among other things-- from a relationship, but the planet Tyche existed in theory.

Iwaizumi makes a face like the undignified brute he is. “What, you don’t get enough eye candy at the lab or something?”

“You don’t have to be so mean just because it’s hard for you to find a date, Iwa-chan,” Tooru sings into his coffee.

“I--” Iwaizumi sits back and crosses his arms. “I don’t have to tell you about my love life. I have nothing to prove to you.”

One thing Tooru has perfected since university is The Look, which he first discovered in middle school. It enables him to pry information out of people with a glance. It’s also as charming as can be. The Look goes well with his false demeanor.

Even Iwaizumi succumbs after a few seconds. His refusing-Oikawa skills must be rusty. He drops his eyes to the corner of Tooru’s chair. “Fine. I had a boyfriend.”

“Had?”

“We dated for four months. It was a year after Fusako and I broke up.”

Tooru shamelessly delights in hearing this old news. He doesn't care how long ago it was; that girl is gone. A part of him hated her from the start. He's a jealous creature, but he’s thankful to whoever-that-guy-is for giving him a nanoparticle of a chance. At least it’s his terrible habits, clingy nature, and off-putting work ethic that make him inadequate, and not his gender.

“What’s that face for?”

He sits up straighter. “What face?”

In all likelihood, Iwaizumi can’t place the look after so long, but Tooru knows himself. His eyes open, his lips part ever-so-slightly, and his shoulders relax. He begins to swim in fondness and rainbows-- or however people describe it. As worthless as it is in the end, he lets himself imagine a perfect future for a split second. But Tooru is already perfect, so what on Earth is he thinking? He must spend too much time with his head in a galaxy far, far away.

On the way back home, Tooru grins ruefully. At the end of high school, he thought that two hours was a long time to travel. He would have died if Iwaizumi had been this far away. Does distance really make the heart fonder? All he remembers is the constant weight under his sternum. It’s at the same order of magnitude as before, as far as he knows. He was born searching for Iwa-chan’s touch.

As he's said to colleagues and visitors alike, Tooru fell in love with the stars when he was five. He saw a strip of the Milky Way and wanted to name every speck of light it contained. On clear nights, he snuck out to find the constellations. It was only natural that he would dedicate himself to studying the universe.

As his mother always says, Tooru and Hajime were inseparable almost since they were born. Tooru saw Hajime going out and wanted to follow him to the great unknown. On clear nights, he crawled out of his window to show Iwa-chan everything he knew. It was only natural that he would find himself hopelessly in love with his friend.

What does he want in life? His coworker asked that when they first met. She's not good at coming up with icebreakers. Then again, she's not the single one. It's funny how things work like that.

Tooru used to want a castle to preen in, but it just drifts over his head now. He practiced using his looks to project an image, but why? There's no one to fool anymore. He's far from the most talented researcher in his field, and he can only do so much in his lifetime.

The more he thinks about it, the more Tooru realizes that he needs to find a hobby other than volleyball. He should get a one-person avocation, like pottery or tap dancing. (Well, not those.) Nowadays, he has no reason to toss balls at anything. Setting reminds him of slaps on the back and being scolded for staying out too late.

Maybe he peaked in high school.

When he expresses this to Iwaizumi one late night-morning, he receives a diatribe filled with reassuring intimations. Oh, how like Iwa-chan. He goes through all the usual accolades: the prestige of research, the doctorate his parents point out as his introduction, the papers he's written. Tooru doubts that he will ever be this flattered. He might name a planet after Iwaizumi. At any rate, he has a while to go before he accomplishes all that he can.

When the work day starts, Tooru submits an application to his senior in person. She takes it with two hands and a wavering smile of anticipation. She always gets excited when people come to her for opportunities.

“I'm surprised, Oikawa! You've never asked me for anything before.” (Not true; he told everyone to call him by his last name when he first arrived.) “I'll tell you if anything changes.”

Things do change, of course. In one month, Tooru gets a new office chair and a pair of round glasses frames. Ennoshita finishes his project; Akaashi flies back across the ocean, where he belongs. The city grows too hot to form coherent thoughts in the sun. Iwaizumi verbally abuses Tooru at a normal frequency. Takeru bothers to call. It's nice to ease into routine.

His senior arrives with a task list. She adores check boxes. Her steps bounce from her desk to his. “I have something for you.”

Tooru admits that his acceptance grin is genuine. He has a mountain of work ahead of him, but there's a legacy at the peak. He'll grace the future with his presence.

Now, why is the future's name so difficult to pronounce?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> > "fusa" means "to plug up," the opposite of "tōru" ("to push through")
> 
> If you didn't take it for granted already, this fic is taking place in an alternate reality/future. Oikawa works for NASA, but the program described thus far (and in the future) differs from its real-life counterpart.


	3. From Chocolate to Tofu

Tooru's kids are precocious little devils. This is karma for being such a pain in the neck during his youth, according to Iwaizumi. Excuse him. At least he didn't rifle through other people’s stuff. He should have anticipated that the stacks of papers on the spare desk would fall victim to their grubby hands. Why does he keep a bottle of hand sanitizer around? They never use it. Who knows what they’ve touched.

So, in the end, it’s mostly his fault for leaving things out. He’s dealing with children who don’t know what to do with themselves when he turns around for a minute. They need precise instructions to function.

“Oooh, Dr. Oikawa, do you have a _girlfriend?"_ cries Mirna, who has made the wise decision to stand by the door to the hallway. She brandishes a sheet torn from a notepad. “‘Buy heart-shaped chocolates.’”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Stephen-not-Steven grumbles into his sandwich-- which he is _not_ supposed to be eating in Tooru’s office. “There’s no way he has a girlfriend. He barely has time to grade our papers.”

Lishan snatches the note out of Mirna’s hands, earning him an irritated yelp. He scans it for clues. “Our papers are less important than a girlfriend.”

Stolen (“commandeered”) swivel chair skating across the floor, Jyothi rushes over to see. “But it says ‘and deodorant’ underneath.”

“So it’s gotta be a boyfriend,” concludes Marcus. He points upwards like he does when he finishes a challenging problem set.

Oh, _there_ that stupid thing is. Tooru pushes the calculator in front of Tati with a huff. It’s definitely on the supply list, so she’s supposed to have one. He knows for a fact that Mirna has a spare; she’s just being uncooperative today. Everyone is in a mischievous mood. It must be the heat.

He marches over and confiscates the paper in the most dignified way he can manage. “I don’t have a girlfriend or a boyfriend. This is for a friend.”

Lishan has the sense to look chastised, being the youngest in the group. He’s a rising sophomore, the equivalent of a first-year. Stephen, Jyothi, and Tati are rising juniors. Mirna and Marcus are rising seniors. American high school grade levels are overcomplicated, just like the burger menus. Years have no bearing on the amount of trouble they cause, anyway.

“A friend who likes heart-shaped chocolates?”

“Marcus, if you email me asking for a recommendation letter next month, I will have no mercy on you.”

That shuts the kids up. Like any aspiring university applicants, they rely on the generosity of others to stand out. Tooru's not a team captain, but he's in charge of this bunch of teenagers. They're here to learn from him, not pick at his terribly-disguised feelings. Then again, he doesn’t really want to write them recommendation letters. His functionally-perfect grasp on the English language falters when it comes to those.

“Hey, don’t start crying on me. I’m only buying you ice cream at the end of the program.” He gestures at the door. “You have work to do.”

In a way, overseeing the self-proclaimed Space Squad takes the same amount of patience as watching Takeru used to. He’s too nice to them, so they prod at him like they would a friend. So-called intelligence-- qualifications according to the application form-- has no effect on maturity. At least Jyothi shares her snacks with everyone.

He and Iwaizumi can’t have lunch together every day, obviously, but they video call at least once a week. There’s no schedule; Tooru doesn’t follow rime or reason. No matter how late or early it is, Iwaizumi eventually picks up. He encourages Tooru’s bad habits a lot for someone who berates him so often. That’s what long-lasting friendship is like.

Sometimes, Iwaizumi has Fridays off, so he makes the call whenever it’s convenient for him. This causes Tooru’s phone to go off in the middle of wraps and pizza. He freezes mid-bite. Tati glances up from her systematic pepperoni separation.

Tooru would usually answer in a secluded area, but it’s past noon and he’s _hungry,_ so he puts the phone on the table. He waves his food over the screen. “This is a bad time, Iwa-chan!”

“You called me at 3:30 last week, Trashykawa,” grumbles Iwaizumi.

“Boyfriend?” Marcus mouths, having decided to die on that hill.

Good thing they’re speaking in Japanese. Tooru gives him his best “disapproving adult” stare. “The kids and I are at lunch.”

“Okay, then I’ll hang up.”

“Wait--”

Even distorted by the phone’s speaker, Iwaizumi’s laugh causes the corners of Tooru’s mouth to quirk up. He hides behind his wrap, but Mirna’s grin stretches across her face. She can’t be that happy about ranch dressing.

“I wasn’t actually going to leave.”

“Mean, Iwa-chan!” He passes Lishan a napkin before he gets grease all over his pants. “You can talk while I eat.”

“Wow, you want to listen to me for once?”

Tooru almost says “I always want to listen to you,” but he sees Jyothi giggle and decides against it. He needs to preserve some of his dignity. “I’m gracing you with my presence. You should be thankful that I'm making time for you.”

“You should be thankful that I’m not there to kill you myself,” grunts Iwaizumi, who starts describing his latest project anyway. He’s improving the efficiency of his team’s design. As usual, he plans on working on it at home. What a boring, predictable guy.

Regardless of how dreadfully dull engineering can be, Tooru pays attention until Stephen reminds him that they have a schedule to follow. He’s too responsible for his own good. There aren’t enough hours in the day for Iwaizumi, are there? Tooru must take too long to ensure that his castle won’t fall into disrepair. The students track healthy dirt everywhere; he spends more time cleaning up after them than he does thinking about his plans for the future.

“Do you guys want to say hi to Iwa-chan before he hangs up?” he queries in English. “Well, he’s Mr. Iwaizumi to you.”

“Mr. Iwaizumi,” echoes Iwa-chan in the most patronizing tone he can muster beneath his smirk.

“Hi Mr. Iwaizumi!” Tati pipes, waving at the phone’s general direction.

“Hi!” cries Mirna from the trash can a few meters away.

Jyothi takes her chances by poking her head into view of the camera. “Are you really Dr. Oikawa’s boyfriend?”

“Don’t say that!” interjects Lishan as he tries to drag her out of range of Tooru’s wrath. “Sorry, Mr. Iwaizumi. Have a good day.”

Tooru clears his throat. “Anyway, bye Iwa-chan!”

The call doesn’t end quickly enough, but he wishes that it could have gone on longer regardless. Nothing the kids say can faze Iwaizumi. He's seen everything embarrassing about Tooru already. He's the one who bought Tooru's favorite alien-patterned pajamas.

After class ends, to the approval of his coworker, Tooru leaves his office. His apartment is quiet apart from the buzz of the aircon. The lights take a second to turn on when he flicks the switch. He sits down in the chair he keeps despite it being too short for his dining room table. (Why does he have a dining room, again? No one’s been over in at least a year.)

Adulthood is a lot less exciting than kids think. Tooru lost sight of the magic at the beginning of middle school; Iwaizumi never fully bought into it. Even then, though, they weren't thinking of taxes and insurance plans. They imagined growing old, losing touch, and dying alone. Tooru had made Iwa-chan promise to stay with him forever with a plastic gachapon ring. He still has the ring.

His cellphone buzzes.

“Hey, Iwa-chan! You’re calling again? Did you miss me that much?”

“I thought you wanted to talk.”

A smile curls onto Tooru’s face, performing for no one. “You know me so well. Wanna hear about the kids?”

“Sure, whatever.” (He’s interested.)

It took Tooru several days to stop mispronouncing Mirna’s name. She never took offense; she just cackled without hiding the fact. Her upfront attitude catalyzes everyone else’s rebelliousness. When the fancy strikes Marcus, they wreak havoc on Tooru’s _very carefully organized workspace._

“Do they knock over the papers and try to clean them up?”

He fakes a gasp. “You’re so smart, Iwa-chan. No wonder you’re an engineer.”

Marcus may take years off of Tooru’s life, but he motivates Tati and Lishan to try new things. He keeps bringing in random childhood toys and middle-school-anime-otaku merch for them. His calculations always have the right number of significant figures. He also does Tati’s hair on the mornings that they come in early.

The one with the most constant energy is Jyothi, who has suffered through having a younger brother for ten years. She fast-walks around the office, tapping at her computer to the rhythm of a pop song. To Tooru’s dismay, she fears no man, and she’s an atheist. If the Space Squad wants to know everything about Iwa-chan, she’ll be the one to make it happen.

Iwaizumi makes a dry snorting noise. “You just love talking about yourself. If you really don’t want them to know, they won’t.”

He’s right. Tooru can hide things from everyone-- Iwaizumi is an exception when they’re in the same room, but he can do it over the phone. He fools himself better than he does Iwaizumi, sometimes. All of his secrets play hide-and-seek in his castle.

“Oi. Are you free next Saturday?”

Of course he is, so Tooru ends up arguing about cushions at two in the afternoon. They have to match the curtains. What kind of monster _is_ Iwa-chan? Does he really think that those won't clash with the rug, or is he _trying_ to drive Tooru crazy?

“Well, I like them, so I'm getting them anyway.” Iwaizumi pats the pillows as if to console their dinosaur-patterned hearts.

Tooru puts his hands on his hips. “Why am I here?”

“So you won't complain as much about where you're sleeping.”

“You're banishing me to the couch?”

(“Should I ask them if they need help?” whispers a worker to his senior.

She shakes her head and mouths, “Lover's quarrel.”)

“You're paying for lunch,” Tooru insists with a betrayed huff. “I can't believe you would do this to me, Iwa-chan.”

Iwaizumi hasn't made Tooru sleep on the couch since that one time in middle school when they were mad at each other. It had something to do with Tooru getting a girlfriend. Then, in the middle of the night, a thunderstorm scared Tooru to the point of tears, and… well, he always gets his way. He's been spoiled.

They decide on the perfect affordable couch after further bargaining. Tooru is spending the night where he belongs, but he's helping to cook dinner. Good thing he knows how to make agedashi tofu.

Iwaizumi lives closer to an Asian supermarket than him, which is totally unfair. Why are the comforts of home more accessible to him? Why do ducks always choose him over Tooru when they feed birds together? Why does he own a “Kiss the Chef” apron and choose to wear it today? _Unfair._

“No, Iwa-chan, stoooop,” Tooru whines, though he scoots over anyway. “I’m working here!”

“It’s not my fault you chose to put the flour on under the spice cabinet.” He cracks the door open to grab a bottle. “Don’t get it all over my counter.”

“I’m making your favorite food. I’ll get it wherever I want to.”

“Alright,” shrugs Iwaizumi, “I’ll get the futon out.”

Tooru flicks a clump of flour onto Iwaizumi’s apron. “No you won’t.”

Iwaizumi glances between him and the offending splatter. He shakes his head. “You’re helping me clean up after this.”

“This?”

He gets a faceful of powder, which may very well _never come out of his hair; Iwa-chan this is war! War, do you hear me?_

So maybe the counter is covered in flour anyway. Maybe the floor becomes slippery in indistinguishable places because the tiles are also white. Maybe they’re both coughing sporadically. Maybe dinner is forgotten, even though the vegetables are still safely bagged by the sink.

Maybe the war ends when Tooru drags white lines down the side of Iwaizumi’s face with his fingertips and doesn’t quite let go. Maybe he wonders if Iwaizumi would like to know what it’s like to use flour as chapstick.

He rubs his own jaw. “I’m hungry. Truce?”

“Yeah,” breathes Iwaizumi. He reaches for the roll of paper towels. “Yeah.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you have a favorite kid in the Space Squad, don't hesitate to ask for them to come back.


	4. From Stickers to Stubs

As he surveys the arrangement of posters around the event hall, Tooru wonders if his own graduations were ever this fun. The Space Squad has its own corner that it guards with seemingly natural pacing rounds. Stephen is trusted with their sticker sheets; Tati leads the way to eye the other groups’ work. Mirna uses the (triangle-shaped) square from Marcus’s backpack to ensure that their displays aren’t crooked.

“I hope you’re not offering a prize for the poster with the most stickers on it,” Tooru comments to his coworker.

She peels a smiling apple off of her sheet and smears it onto his nametag. The stickers are just for fun. There’s no way to tell who placed them, so they’re unreliable indicators. (Lishan already has a star on his face, thanks to Jyothi.) Tooru sticks an alien head onto his clipboard, naturally. It’s not his money.

“Hm? What is it, Lishan?”

“Mint chocolate chip,” he remarks gravely. He runs his fingers along his lanyard. “Dr. Oikawa, you ordered a scoop of mint chocolate chip ice cream yesterday.”

Yes, and Stephen asked for chocolate syrup with as many rainbow sprinkles as Tooru’s budget would allow. It gave Tooru a toothache on sight. Marcus was so amused by the color-changing spoons that he almost forgot to eat his third of the banana split before it melted. By the time he got to it, Jyothi and Lishan had gone through a series of complex agreements to arrive at a new plan of division. His cherry was almost sacrificed to Tati, but Mirna intervened.

Lishan rubs the back of his neck. “Didn’t you say that you don’t like mint chocolate chip last week?”

“Were you thinking about that instead of practicing your final presentation last night?” Tooru chuckles half-heartedly, assessing whether or not it’ll amplify his nervousness. “You’re right; I don’t like it, but it’s my friend’s favorite, so I wanted to try it.” He waves at the corner. “Graduation starts in five minutes. Go get ready!”

The truth is, mint chocolate chip tastes good when he eats it off of Iwaizumi’s spoon. It’s the spark of summer that evades day-long volleyball practices. Yesterday, in the California heat, it was just sugary toothpaste.

He may be a bit biased, but Tooru thinks the Space Squad delivers the best presentation. They have well-timed slide transitions, clear pictures, and pared-down graphs for the parents. Mirna takes every opportunity to toss a joke into her slides; Jyothi only stutters once. Everything is legible and logical. Marcus’s acknowledgements drop a clipart crown onto Tooru’s head. The room fills with sincere applause. Tati beams.

No, his graduations were never this exciting. Kita-ichi is too far away to care about now, but he remembers his last day at Seijoh. Too many tears were involved-- he cried so much that Takeru didn’t even tease him for it. University commencements lacked that emotion, but maybe Tooru wasn’t paying enough attention to them at that point. It’d just been receiving a diploma, no hugs involved. He’d said all of his goodbyes before those days.

“They did great,” someone comments beside him, “despite their terrible instructor.”

Tooru is too caught up in his pride to retort, so he presses an alien to Iwaizumi’s collar. (It is equivalent to a “like,” after all.) “The first poster session is at 10:30.”

No one else is in the corner during the open session. Everyone’s parents are either coming in the afternoon or overseas. The nanny of a boy in another group takes a look on her way to the other side of the room. It’s alright, though, because the Space Squad is occupied. Marcus has taken the outer rectangle of his sheet and pasted it to the back of their second poster, to Stephen’s dismay. Tati is struggling to locate a sticker somewhere in Mirna’s hair.

Jyothi whirls around when Tooru approaches. “Dr. Oikawa!” She grins. “You brought your not-boyfriend!”

He taps his pen on the top of his clipboard. “I’m the one grading you, you know.”

“Posters are five percent each of our grades,” recites Lishan. “If we get hundreds on everything else, we’ll still get 85s. That’s a passing grade.”

Stephen shakes his head. “Dr. Oikawa wouldn’t do that to us.”

“They sound like you, Trashykawa.”

“Geh!”

A crumpled star in hand, Tati returns to her post. She nods expectantly at Iwaizumi, who ambles over to read their work. It’s much more colorful than Tooru’s reports. Thanks to Tooru’s input, the layout is friendly to the eyes. If they all forget everything they’ve learned, at least they’ll know how to format posters.

Iwaizumi puts his hands in his pockets. “Good work.” He turns.

“You’re leaving already, Iwa-chan?” Tooru catches the cuff of his sleeve before he walks away. “Didn’t you come all the way to see them?”

“What? No.” He looks back. “I came here to see you.”

When Tooru thinks about it, life is seriously unfair to him. He has good looks that draw women to him, but all he wants is Iwaizumi’s attention. His hard work to become a great setter was bested by his genius former underclassman. The coffee maker doesn’t have the right settings to make coffee how he likes it. Every time he’s about to make his peace with his feelings, Iwaizumi does something that sparks hope for him.

“--to see you before my meeting,” Iwaizumi amends, hastily moving the alien sticker from his collar to the back of his phone case. “I have to go.”

“Fine, fine. Text me when and where you want to have dinner.”

Tooru’s coworker passes by and gives him a thumbs-up. He uses all of his willpower to give her a civil smile.

When the posters are all rolled up and sealed (Marcus’s with a line of stickers), the event hall returns to being a room with a projector screen. Parents and assistant program counselors tote the rolls off before the ceremony commences. Tooru’s boss gives a short speech; the students laugh through a video of silly pictures of them. They’re all smiles on the stage to collect their diplomas. All of Tooru’s kids give him a hug after they walk off, starting with Mirna. He doesn’t hesitate to squeeze back.

The members of the Space Squad shower him in stars, take dozens of selfies with him, and start to leave when their counselors get impatient. Stephen’s parents thank him profusely for helping their son come out of his shell; Jyothi’s brother is as pesky as she claims he is. Despite everything, Marcus asks him to write a recommendation letter, which Tooru acquiesces to out of begrudging respect. Lishan promises to send him an email when his flight lands.

Then, they’re gone, and Tooru wonders if he has the heart to teach again next year. He applied as a testament to his flaws, but ended up with perfection.

_Iwa-chan (now): Have you seen the new Godzilla movie yet?_

Dinner and a movie-- just like old times, when they were young enough to be dwarfed by pillow forts and their grand, Air Salonpas-scented dreams. It’s not _entirely_ about space, but Tooru doesn’t mind. He’s watching Iwaizumi’s reaction half the time anyway. Yep, he still grins at every CGI explosion. Yep, he still tugs at Tooru’s wrist during the coolest action scenes. Yep, he still only looks at Tooru to silently admonish him for eating half the popcorn before the movie even started. Some things never change.

“What did you think?” Iwaizumi queries as they walk to Tooru’s car.

“Not enough aliens,” he chirps, of course.

He sighs. “Why did I bother asking?”

San Francisco’s sky is almost nothing like the night of their childhood. It’s smudged to an ambiguous gray from light pollution and smog, blotting out the stars. That’s the price of city life. There are no constellations for Tooru to point out of Iwa-chan, no fireflies for them to run after. All they have in the yawning dark is each other.

“Iwa-chan?”

“Hm?”

“Do you have any regrets?”

“We’re in our thirties, not our seventies, Trashykawa.” Iwaizumi inclines his head. “I guess I have a few. I mean, Hanamaki and Matsukawa are getting married--”

“They _what?”_ shrieks Tooru. He grabs Iwaizumi’s arm. “Why did I not know this until now?”

“It’s not my problem that you didn’t leave any contact information behind.”

“Don’t look so smug! Is there going to be a wedding?”

“They announced their engagement last week. How am I supposed to know?”

Tooru presses his face into Iwaizumi’s shoulder. “Iwa-chaaaaan!” He might cry from both joy and frustration.

“So, as I was saying before you interrupted me--” He exaggerates his next few steps to guide Tooru to the right street.

“For a good reason!”

“--one of my regrets is that we stopped talking after you moved out.”

See, Tooru has at least nineteen full years of digging-his-heels-in experience under his belt, so he halts them at the corner. The car can wait; he can see it, so it won’t get stolen. “Oh. Yeah. Me too.”

Iwaizumi stops of his own accord. “Is that the best you can do? I told you one of my most important regrets, and your response is ‘me too’?” His nonchalant grin gives way to a very Iwa-chan-esque frown, which will escalate to an expression of insincere anger.

“Well, I didn’t want to say something you wouldn’t understand,” Tooru comments like his high school self.

Ah, there’s the angry face.

Usually, Tooru would either prepare for a light shove or play up his childishness, but Iwaizumi’s eyes shine with the reflection of a movie ad. His muscles tighten under Tooru’s grip; he sticks his bottom lip out a fraction. He has almost the same haircut as he’s always gotten, even when his mother stopped telling the barber directions and let him decide for himself. He’s just teasing Tooru, obviously, because he’s never seriously hit him before.

Usually, Tooru would laugh it off, but he accepts that Iwaizumi Hajime is too much of his world to let things go this time. What is a king without his trusty advisor? What is a throne without a country around it? What is he, the perfect Dr. Oikawa Tooru, without his best friend?

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs. “It’s my fault.”

Iwaizumi swats his head. “Don’t say stuff like that. It’s my fault too.”

“Are you working tomorrow?” Before the serious atmosphere leads to divulging more secrets, Tooru swings them back into walking. “I’m off, because my boss finally appreciates all my hard work.”

“No, and my flight back is tomorrow night. Maybe my boss wants to torture me.”

Tooru grins as he presses the ignition button. “Don’t frown so much. You’re gonna get even more wrinkles, and then you’ll actually be an old man.”

“I’m only a month and ten days older than you,” Iwaizumi grumbles to the window.

When they spent practically every day together, Tooru and Iwa-chan would waste time on capricious endeavors. Tooru would babysit Takeru; Iwaizumi bought them both milk bread-- if only to lord his “best uncle” title over Tooru. They went to the park to talk about everything. When they were young enough to be missing teeth, it was their next adventure. When Tooru started getting non-courtesy chocolates for holidays, it was volleyball.

Tonight, while drowsy street lamps keep vigilance over the sidewalks, Tooru and Iwaizumi part ways. It would be a waste of a company-sponsored hotel room to go out this late. Maybe they’re becoming old-timers who sleep at nine.

Tooru puts his ticket stub and half-empty sheet of stickers under the plastic alien ring. He goes to bed at a decent time for once, grinning at nothing.

Iwaizumi is up bright and early to go for a jog. This is an insult to Tooru’s schedule. He arises from the slumber of the dead to silence his phone, before it vibrates off his bedside table. That’s too many pictures! Has Iwa-chan never seen a bird before? There are birds in Los Angeles, aren’t there?

“Meaaan,” he rasps, his voice echoing faintly back into his ear. “Iwa-chan, why are you awake?”

After a moment: “To get you out of bed, Lazykawa. You said you wanted to do something today.”

“It’s still today at 11, isn’t it?”

“I’m checking out at 11. Be there.”

Tooru only goes to the hotel at all because it’s Iwa-chan, who will go to any length to torture him. He would do the same, smiling all the while.


End file.
